


Hook, Line and Sinker

by imafriendlydalek



Series: Lobsters. [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Getting Together, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-13
Updated: 2016-07-18
Packaged: 2018-07-23 19:54:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7477710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imafriendlydalek/pseuds/imafriendlydalek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>“I knew I loved Sam about a minute after I met him.”</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>  <em>“A minute after you met Sam he called you a punk and dumped a drink in your lap.”</em></p><p> </p><p><em>“Like I said,” Bucky persisted. “A minute after I met Sam, I knew he was the one.”</em><br/>***<br/>Bucky, Sam and Steve weren't always lobster fishermen in Maine. This is the story of how they ended up there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Finding Sam

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of the Reel Me In 'verse. It takes place before the events of that story, but does not need to be read first.
> 
> OrbingArrow beta'ed - yay Arrow!
> 
> Thanks for kudos and comments - they feed my soul and heart and ego!

“I feel like half of my life is you dragging me around saying ‘come on, it’ll be fun’,” Steve said as he peered at his reflection in the mirror and ran a hand through his hair.

“That’s because if it weren’t for me, you’d have forgotten what fun looks like,” Bucky replied, rubbing his good hand over the back of Steve’s head to mess up the hair Steve had just carefully pushed into place.

Steve swatted him away playfully. “That’s a boldface lie, Bucky Barnes, and you know it. At least 40 percent of our stupid ideas were mine.”

“Eh, maybe 35 percent, on a good day,” Bucky replied with a grin. “Now come on, don’t wanna miss it.”

“It runs all night, Buck.”

“It’s a vets drink for half price event. They might run out.”

Steve rolled his eyes but followed Bucky nevertheless. “Only after you get there. Can’t believe we have to trek out all the way to Harlem,” he grumbled.

“Half price,” Bucky reiterated.

***

They’d been at the bar maybe twenty minutes and were halfway through their first drink when the bartender slid a freshly poured pint across the bar to Steve. “From the guy in the blue shirt,” he indicated. 

Bucky and Steve glanced down to where the guy the bartender was pointing out was leaning against the bar. 

“Not bad, Rogers,” Bucky teased. “Think that’s a new record on how fast someone bought you a drink. Shame you won’t be able to enjoy it.” 

Steve accepted the beer with a smile and a shrug. “It's mostly about the gesture anyway. Better go say thanks,” he said with a slightly bashful smile. “Sorry to ditch you.”

“No worries. Guy looking like that, I’d be disappointed in you if you didn’t. Besides,” he added with a nod towards the pool table, “I’m gonna go mingle on my own anyway.”

Steve smiled and clasped Bucky’s shoulder as he stood. “Happy hunting.”

Bucky watched as Steve made his way over to meet the guy who’d bought him the beer, then he sidled over towards the pool table. A group of guys were in the middle of the game, and Bucky had been eyeing one of them pretty much since he and Steve had gotten to the bar. The guy had a mischievous smile, the kind that suggested he could probably keep up with Steve and Bucky’s sense of humor, a neatly trimmed goatee and _delicious_ looking arms that flexed magnificently as he leaned down to take a shot. There was also something about him, unlike the other guys he was with, that had Bucky’s gaydar pinging. Bucky normally kept his flirtation to a minimum at military events - even after the repeal of Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell, it was often safer that way - but something told him this guy wasn’t about to go hunting him down in a dark alley later.

“Oooh, tough shot,” Bucky drawled. “Bet you the next round it won’t go in.”

The guy looked up at Bucky from where he was leaning over the pool table - and _damn_ if those eyelashes weren’t a thing of beauty - looked Bucky over and scoffed. “No one ever tell you not to make a bet you don’t know you can win?”

Bucky shrugged. “Let’s call it a calculated risk. Either way, I get you to have a drink with me.”

“Well someone’s sure of himself,” one of the guy’s friends pointed out.

The guy straightened, rubbed some chalk over the end of his pool stick, and nodded. “Alright, punk, you got yourself a bet. Might as well get in line at the bar already, though. I’ll take a whiskey on the rocks.”

There were ooohs from the guy’s friends at the challenge, but Bucky just smiled to himself. As he’d said - calculated risk. Win-win either way.

“You’re on.”

The guy smiled, leaned down, and casually knocked the ball into the pocket as if it were the easiest thing in the world. As his friends made cat calls and whooping sounds, he stood to his full height again slowly and smirked at Bucky. “I believe you owe me a whiskey.”

“Fair enough,” Bucky conceded. “Come on, then. Man who can make a shot like that deserves the finest half-price whiskey this place has.”

Bucky led the way to the bar, where he ordered two glasses of whiskey. “Here you go,” he said as he slid one over to the guy, who nodded his thanks. “You know, I do like to know the names of guys I buy drinks for. I'm Bucky, by the way.”

The guy laughed. “Really? Your parents lose a bet or something?” 

Bucky shot him a look. “It's a nickname. Short for Buchanan. Parents had a thing for presidents. Could be worse - my little sister's middle name is Wilson.”

“That's not sooo bad,” the guy said with a smile. “Wilson's my last name. Sam Wilson.”

Bucky spread his hands to show deference. “It's fine for a last name, or for an anthropomorphized volleyball if you're stranded on an island all alone, but let's just say she wasn't thrilled about it. But anyway, good to meet ya, Sam Wilson.” He raised his glass and they toasted to one another. There was a brief moment of silence as each let the alcohol burn its way down his throat, then Bucky spoke again. “So, Sam Wilson, tell me about you.”

Sam had been in pararescue, which Bucky thought was pretty fucking impressive, and he told Sam as much. 

Sam shrugged it off as if it weren't a big deal, as if he hadn't been in one of the most elite branches of the military. “That was a period in my life. I’m glad to have served my country, but it’s over now.”

“Must have been good,” Bucky sang to the tune of the song from Pretty Woman, “but I lost it somehow.”

Sam rolled his eyes dramatically. “Something like that.”

Bucky liked him, he decided. He _really_ liked him. So naturally he did what he inevitably always did when he really likes someone: he started pushing their buttons. Because self-sabotage was the Barnes way, apparently.

“You know, I’ve never met a former PJ before. Tell me - they all got guns as big as yours-” Bucky nodded towards Sam’s impressive biceps “-or is it just you?”

Sam shrugged. “We had to do a _lot_ of push-ups. It’s pretty rigorous training. You Army guys wouldn’t understand.”

It was standard Army-Air Force banter, and Bucky knew it, but he’d never been able to let anything slide past him. So he held up his left hand, which he’d kept in his pocket until then, and said “Well I got a pretty good excuse these days.”

Sam did a double-take when he saw the prosthetic, but then again, just about every did. Especially when Bucky snuck up on them with a revelation like that. It was a dick move, but Bucky had found it was easiest to keep it concealed until it became relevant. And since he wanted to get to know Sam better, it was certainly going to become relevant at some point.

But the reaction was gone as quickly as it had come, and then Sam nodded towards Bucky’s hand. 

“Service souvenir?”

Bucky nodded. “All those times people say ‘I’d give my left hand for, I dunno, front row tickets to a U2 concert,’ well, it’s not worth it.”

Sam huffed. “No, U2 definitely would _not_ be worth it. Really, U2?”

“It was the first band that came to mind,” Bucky tried to deflect. Steve had been on a classic rock kick lately.

“I take it you haven’t found what you’ve been looking for?” Sam asked, his tone dripping with insinuation.

Bucky took a step towards Sam. He was about to say something along the lines of “I dunno, how ‘bout we go find out?” when Sam suddenly was falling towards him, having just been knocked into by a very large guy behind him trying to get to the bathroom, and then Bucky was wet.

“Oh shi- sorry!” Sam stared at Bucky for a moment, and Bucky stared back. His glass was still in his hand, but it was now empty, its contents very much all over Bucky.

Sam sprang into action suddenly, grabbing a wad of napkins from the bar and dabbing at Bucky’s lap in vain. 

Bucky couldn’t help but laugh. “Usually takes more than one drink to get this kinda treatment.”

Sam straightened and gave Bucky’s shoulder a playful shove as he dropped the soggy napkins on the bar. He raised an eyebrow at Bucky. “You’re not very good at accepting help, are you?”

“Not at all. Shrink says it’s my way of deflecting cuz of…” he let the sentence trail off as he lifted his prosthetic hand and shrugged.

Sam half-smiled. “Well if you won’t accept help anyway, I suppose there’s no point in me mentioning that I live just down the street and we could go get you cleaned up, huh?”

It was exactly what Bucky wanted, but he wasn’t going to flip-flop that easily on not accepting help. “Cleaned up? Is that what they’re calling it these days? Or maybe this was all a ploy to get me to come home with you? Was that guy one of your friends? Cuz really, no need to try so hard - I’m pretty easy, man.”

“Suit yourself,” Sam shrugged. “You'd rather walk around looking like you've got incontinence issues, that's your thing. I'll try not to take it too personally that you'd choose that over coming home with me.” He winked to emphasize that he was kidding, and that's when Bucky decided he wanted to latch onto this guy and never let go.

And also when Steve showed up. 

“Geez Buck, you wet yourself or something?”

Bucky scowled. “Nah, turns out Wilson here can't handle my irresistible humor.”

“Few can,” Steve replied, squeezing Bucky’s shoulder as he said it. He extended a hand towards Sam. “Steve Rogers, good to meet ya. Don't let this jerk get your goat too much, he ain't worth it.”

“Thanks Steve,” Bucky grumbled quietly, but the other two swiftly ignored him.

“Sam Wilson,” Sam said as he accepted the handshake. “He always so open to taking help?”

“Only on days that end in Y. He's actually gotten better. Used to try and clean his own plate in restaurants.”

“Oh my god, Steve, it was one time! And the waitress looked really busy!”

Sam laughed, a warm, hearty laugh, and suddenly Bucky wasn't mad at Steve anymore for telling that story.

“You know what, fine,” Bucky said, pushing himself up from his stool and slipping his good hand around Sam’s waist. “I will accept your damn help. Take me home and clean me up, Wilson.” 

Calling it getting cleaned up was probably a stretch, but at least Bucky’s pants were dry by the time he went home late the next morning.

***

It was remarkable how quickly things fell into place between them. Even though Sam lived in Harlem and Bucky lived in Brooklyn, they still managed to see each other almost every day, and there was hardly a night that wasn’t spent at one or the other’s place. It got to the point where it was Steve, actually, who suggested cohabitation might be easier. And cheaper, given the price of rent and cost of MetroCards. So when Sam was offered a transfer to the VA in Brooklyn, he’d jumped at the opportunity, and just a few days later they’d unpacked the U-HAUL and cracked open a bottle of scotch to celebrate the three of them living together.

Not that life was always sunshine and daisies, though - it was just easier together. Each of them had their own inner demons they’d brought back from their time in the military, and those demons liked to come to haunt them in their own ways. For Steve, it was mostly physical - he’d picked up a lung affliction that sat deep and made breathing a chore some days. Bucky hated watching his friend wheezing for every breath, struggling to get enough air to just keep going. Steve had always been relatively athletic since he’d hit that growth spurt around fifteen that had transformed him from a gangly beanpole to the walking swimsuit ad that he’d become. His respiratory issue made it nearly impossible some days for him to walk to the corner, though, let alone go for his accustomed morning runs. He could still paint, at least, which he turned to on those tough days as a way to work through his struggle.

Bucky, on the other hand (ha!), didn’t have art to turn to. He might have been able to do it, in theory, since at least it had been his left hand that he’d lost and not the one he needed for writing, but he figured he’d leave the painting to those with talent. So Bucky made jokes about it as a way to deflect the fact that he was literally missing a piece of himself, and he did his best to avoid situations with loud, sudden noises. It made Steve’s birthday on the Fourth of July difficult to celebrate.

Sam had left service after he’d lost his wingman, which manifested in an anxiety about losing those closest to him. They’d found a workaround for that by keeping in near-constant communication, mostly through text messages, when they weren’t with each other, but it wasn’t a perfect solution. 

The solution, it turned out, came one rainy late-summer afternoon, on a Thursday, by mail, addressed to one James Buchanan Barnes. It was an invitation from his uncle Andrew, who lived up in Maine where Steve and Bucky had spent many a summer helping out on his fishing boat. Okay, calling it helping was maybe a stretch, but they’d meant well. Most of the time.

And that was how Bucky, Steve and Sam found themselves in a small town in Maine, standing outside a bar called the Bearded Clam.

“You have _got_ to be shitting me,” Sam said disbelievingly as he looked up at the sign. “Is this place even real?”


	2. Finding Freedom

“Well look what the cat dragged in,” Uncle Andy greeted the rag-tag group as they stood on the doorstep of his house, pulling first Bucky and then Steve in for a tight hug. After a short moment of assessment, he gave Sam a warm squeeze as well. “Friend o’ Buck’s is a friend o’ mine,” he explained as he clasped Sam’s shoulder and led the three of them into the shabby little house.

Bucky looked around as they followed Andy towards the sitting room. The carpets were worn through in spots, and the wallpaper starting to separate from the wall. It was a hot and humid day, but the ceiling fan was off - Bucky guessed it was probably broken and too high for Andy to reach with his hunched back. The house he and Steve had spent most of their summers in was certainly starting to show its age - as was Uncle Andy. Bucky watched with concern as his uncle lowered himself into his favorite chair, a garish orange wing chair that faced the patio doors, through which, on a clear winter day, you could almost see the ocean.

***

Bucky’s concerns were confirmed later that evening at dinner. Andy had suggested they head down to the Clam, his treat. That was the first hint that something was off. Steve must have caught on to it as well, since he shot Bucky a knowing look.

“All those years I’ve known him,” Steve hissed under his breath to Bucky, “he’s never once offered to buy us dinner. Hell, he made us work for every meal he served us - remember?”

“‘Don’t you bother comin’ home without a fish!’” Steve and Bucky recalled at the same time.

Sam just raised an eyebrow at them and shook his head. “You nerds.”

***

The second hint was when Andy ordered the seasonal beer. _Everyone_ knew better than to order the seasonal; only the tourists ordered it. Or people whose taste buds had clearly been damaged from eating at Bob’s Korner Kafe for too many years.

***

The third and final hint wasn’t really a hint at all - Andy just came out and said it.

“I’m gettin’ too old for this shit,” he muttered into his bilgewater beer.

“Everyone’s too old for that shit,” Bucky said, nodding at the beer. Steve nodded in agreement, at which Bucky elbowed him in the ribs - lucky bastard had an excuse for never having been forced to try the seasonal beer.

“No.” Andy shook his head. “This stuff’s actually not half bad. Grows on ya after a while.”

Bucky and Steve shot him looks of disbelief (Sam was lucky enough never to have had the misfortune of being forced to try the seasonal, so he didn’t know the horror behind Andy’s statement), but Andy continued.

“I mean this. Fishin’. The boat. Poor old girl’s seen better days, but I can’t give her the love she deserves.” Andy held up his hands, weathered from years of working ropes. It was impossible not to notice the way they shook as he spread his fingers. “Yer aunt Mary’s got a place down in South Carolina. Says she’s lonely since Albert passed, that I should keep her company. Be nice to get away from these northern winters. My old bones don’t like the cold much anymore.”

Bucky took a moment to process what Andy was saying. “What’re you gonna do with the house? And the boat?”

Andy shrugged. “Don’t think I’d get much for ‘em, markets what they are. Plus the house’s been in the family since Grandpa John built it. Seems like betrayal to sell it.”

He turned his hands over, as if studying the grooves in his palms. “I know times’ve been tough for ya, Buck, and this ain’t exactly the cushy life, ‘specially with your…” he gestured towards Bucky’s prosthetic hand “... but I’d like you to have it. The house ‘n’ the boat. You’re the closest things to sons I’ve got, you ‘n’ Steve. Might as well pass my two worldly possessions on to you.”

“Lemme get this straight,” Bucky started. “You want to give us your house _and_ your boat?”

Andy shrugged. “Hey, I’m not made of money. Need _something_ to retire on. I wanna sell them to you for a really good price. Family deal, that sorta thing. You can pay it off over a coupla years if you need.”

Bucky was at a loss for words. He glanced over at Steve, who clearly was as well. Sam sat quietly beside them, taking in the scene.

They agreed to think it over, and Andy headed back to his house after dinner while the three of them hung back for another beer. Andy’s offer hung over them and the silence stretched.

“It’d be a lot quieter,” Steve finally said. “No more ambulances racing by at all hours of the night.” He paused. “No more backfiring cars that sound an awful lot like gunfire.”

Steve had a point. Loud noises - that was Bucky’s trigger. Sam didn’t do well with them either.

“Air’s fresher up here,” Sam put forward. 

Sam had a point. Steve’s wheezing had gone from near-constant to almost non-existent since they’d arrived.

Steve nodded as he stared solemnly into his drink. “We always did have good times while fishing. Something about the open sea - it’s freeing.”

“Pretty damn far from New York City, though,” Bucky mumbled, stealing a glance over at Sam to ascertain his reaction.

Sam looked down into his beer glass as if it held all the answers in the world.

They’d only been together for a few months. Keeping it up long distance was probably off the table - the trip cost well over two hundred bucks and took forever since there wasn’t a commercial airport or train station nearby. Quick weekend visits would not be an option.

And he couldn’t really expect Sam to want to move up with them, could he? Moving in together in the same city they both already lived in because rent was cheaper that way was one thing. Asking Sam to move to the ass of nowhere in Maine was another thing. He had a job in New York, family, friends. What was there in Maine for him, besides Bucky? Could that possibly be enough?

“Steve’s got a point,” Sam said, his eyes shifting up to settle on Bucky. “It’s a lot quieter up here. None of that city hullabaloo. It’d be good for ya. For everyone,” he added.

“Did you just honestly use the word ‘hullabaloo’?”

“Quit deflecting, Buck,” Sam retorted. “I know what you’re thinking. Helluva way from New York City. But whatever.” He shrugged, then caught Bucky’s gaze and smiled. “I go where you go.”

***

“What’re we gonna call her?” Steve asked. They were standing on the dock, lined up next to each other, each with their arms folded as they looked down at the sad-looking old boat that was supposed to help them earn their livelihood.

“Crusty Crab,” Sam suggested.

Steve elbowed him. 

“How about ‘Full of Seamen’?” Bucky offered with a waggle of his eyebrows, then jumped backwards to avoid Steve’s elbow.

“How about we write down our suggestions, put them in a bowl and then pull one out, and that’s what we call it?” Sam proposed.

And that’s how they ended up calling the boat _Freedom_. It was Steve’s idea, of course. Bucky protested - “Boring, Stevie, totally boring. So much potential for puns, we can’t waste an opportunity like this. Hey, how ‘bout ‘Oppor-Tuna-Tee’?” - but had relented in the end. “Don’t knock the sanctity of a chance drawing,” Sam had pointed out, and that had been that. 

Steve had been practically beaming with joy as he’d carefully painted the letters of her new name on the back of the boat - the start of a new hobby for him, making sure her hull was always perfectly painted. 

She was far from flawless, the _Freedom_ , but she certainly was always painted nicely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uncle Andy is named after Andrew Jackson. The Barneses are a strange family.


End file.
